I am sure he jests, and I am about to reply that a queen does not have such power, but Mother does; Elizabeth of England too. This realization gives me pause. Could I have influence as Queen of Spain? I cannot say for certain, but Mother more than once remarked that Elisabeth held sway with her sovereign husband. At very least, as a married woman I would be my own mistress. That would be something—something marvelous. A wife must be obedient to her husband. But Philip would be only one master. Presently I am under the thumb and the eyes of so many more.
I smile at François. He may be younger than I, but he speaks wisdom. I have made up my mind. I will be the Queen of Spain. If I must kiss King Philip, so be it. After all, I may surely kiss others as well. Both Henriette and Charlotte indulge in romances with men who please them more than their husbands. Perhaps a Spanish lover is in my future.
* * *
The Queen’s secretary bustles into Her Majesty’s apartment at Metz. “A letter from Madrid.” He holds out the sealed packet. Like the Queen’s other ladies, I rise, but Mother puts out a hand to stop me.
“You may stay,” she says with a slight smile. “I hope for good news in a matter that concerns you.”
My stomach feels odd. For more than four months, whatever Mother may have heard about my prospective marriage, I have heard precious little. Left in ignorance of the negotiations, I have done what I can to prepare myself to be a Spanish queen—working diligently on learning the history of the House of Habsburg and the language. Now perhaps the moment has come for me to know my future. As I watch Mother open the ambassador’s dispatch, I try to remember the Spanish word for seal.
Mother’s smile fades first. The color in her cheeks follows. “The father has no more interest in you than the son did.”
I feel as if I have been slapped. “I do not understand.”
“Philip’s happy marriage to your sister may cause him to mourn her, but not to look favorably upon her family. It seems there is nothing but ill will for France at the court of Spain.”
Her eyes return to the page but do not move, so she is thinking, not reading. I am not thinking, only feeling. The embarrassment of another marital rejection is horrible enough, but there is something especially brutal about being spurned by a man who adored my sister.
“God’s blood!” Mother’s words interrupt my pitiful reflections. “Spain has urged us again and again to dissolve the peace and bring the Protestants into submission. But when His Majesty goes to war, rather than aiding us, the Spaniards are but another obstruction.”
The color begins to return to her face in angry red splotches.
“Philip is less interested in the preservation of faith than he pretends,” she continues, her anger making her more candid than I am accustomed to. “His real interest is power, and he doubtless reckons that the impoverishment of France by war strengthens Spain. I prefer the German princes. They may be heretics, but they are plainspoken in their positions and their hostilities.”
Mother’s face is nearly purple. I can see the blood pulsing at her temples. Rising to her feet, she opens her mouth and then, quite suddenly, sways as if she were aboard a ship. She reaches out to clutch the chair she just left.
“Madame!”
The Queen falls back into her seat. For an instant her eyes reflect the same panic that imbued my voice. Then she says, “Get hold of yourself, Marguerite. Is it not bad enough that I must deal with treachery abroad and a depleted treasury at home? Must I be saddled with a hysterical daughter who appears destined to remain unmarried?”
She puts her head in her hands. “Go.”
I run to my rooms. François is there. He often is lately. Without a word I rush past him, snatch up the Spanish I have been working on—books and all—and cast it onto the fire with such force that sparks fly out. One lands upon my skirts. Before I can reach down, my brother is beside me beating at the spot with his hand, then stamping the small glowing fragments that litter the hearth.
“Margot, you might have been burned.” Looking up from extinguishing the last of the embers, his eyes widen. “Who has made you weep?”
“The King of Spain and our mother. Neither loves me, nor do they find me useful.”
“The more fool them.” François takes my hands in his.
I am surprised by this response. I expected protestations that Mother cares for me. I stop crying, catch my breath, and look more closely at François. “You think Mother does not love me, then?”
“Not as I do. Not as she ought. Not as she loves Anjou.” There is bitterness in this pronouncement, but even more noticeable is the certitude.
Is this what being left so long alone at Amboise did to my brother: made him sure he is unloved? If so, is that horrible or fortunate? I waver between believing Her Majesty indifferent to me, and grasping at gestures which suggest she might care. My striving to secure her approval and her love is constant, and can be crushing. Would believing—truly believing—I was unloved free me? No. It would destroy me. I know that by the nausea that wells at the thought of being nothing to Mother, and by the need I feel to prove to François he is in error.
“Mother loves all her children.”
“Convince yourself of that if you wish,” he replies. “But I refuse to be duped. She does not love me and I do not care.” He does not care, but his voice shakes. “The day will come when she will be sorry for thinking so little of me. When she will not be able to look over me or past me. When she will need me and wish that I needed her.”
I think of my brother as a boy. After all, he is just on the cusp of fourteen. But in this declaration—in his clear, angry eyes and fervent expression of ambition—I glimpse the man in him. Like Charles, there is something frightening in that man. This is knowledge worth having. It also makes me vaguely sad. It seems that, among my brothers, Anjou alone has been spared a dark side. I can see that prince in my mind’s eye as he was at Saumur, striding about, all muscle, grace, and authority, showing His Majesty the troops. Is it any wonder Mother loves Henri best? He has earned that place by never disappointing. Can I say the same? Not if I am being honest. Anjou once called me his equal. I must try harder to make it so.
* * *
François is stretched out, head resting in my lap, eyes closed when it happens. Pausing to turn a page in the book I am reading aloud, I glance in the direction of the window just as a bird flies into it with a sickening thud—a black bird. My body starts involuntarily.
“What is it?” my brother asks, eyes still closed.
“A bird struck the glass and fell away. I fear it is dead.”
“There are birds enough to fill the March sky without that one.”
François is right. Why should the death of a bird leave me feeling uneasy?
I begin reading again, but my apprehension lingers. More than lingers: it grows. The door swings open. Charlotte stands on the threshold, her face blanched of color.
“The Queen has collapsed!”
François sits up, catching the book with his cheekbone and knocking it from my hands. It lands with a thud very like the black bird made.
Dear God, was that the sound Mother made as well when she collapsed?
Clutching his face, François asks, “What happened?”
“I do not know. I do not know,” Charlotte replies in panic. “She was with the King and his advisors. They carried her to her rooms.” My friend’s hands twist in her skirts. “I saw them. The Queen was insensate and hung in their arms as one…” She stops, covering her mouth with both hands.
As we did as children, François and I go together. Arriving outside Mother’s apartment at a run, we find a crowd. I push my way through until I am at the door. Marie is there, eyes filled with worry. Embracing me, she says, “Charles and Castelan are with her.”
Turning the handle, I push. The door opens slightly, then comes to rest against the sturdy body of a royal guardsman. He turns prepared to upbraid whoever has tried to make entry. But at the sight of François and me,
he steps back, allowing us to pass.
Mother’s physician is beside her bed. Charles stands at the foot with several others. The King acknowledges us by look but says nothing. Straightening up, Castelan comes to join him. “It is the strain of the war,” he murmurs. “Her Majesty would not rest after the death of the Queen of Spain, though I more than once urged rest upon her. She would not believe the war could proceed without her. Now nature does for her what she would not do for herself: puts her to bed.”
“I blame the Duke of Florence,” Charles says angrily. “Word came yesterday he was delaying the loan he promised.”
I glance at Mother, her eyes closed, her face white, her stillness a stark contrast to the fury that animated her when I saw her last. And I know I am to blame. Ought I to tell Castelan of this morning? Of how Mother’s anger was disrupted by the sudden swaying? I find I cannot, so instead I say, “I fear, Your Majesty, that the letter from your ambassador in Madrid also upset her.”
The men around me look perplexed. “What letter?” Charles asks.
So Mother kept the news of my rejection to herself.
“Howsoever Her Majesty came to be reduced to such a state”—Charles’ chancellor clearly feels a discussion of diplomatic points can wait—“the question must be asked.” He pauses. We all know what question. It trembles in the air as if it were a living thing. But it seems only he has the courage to speak it aloud, so we wait for him to continue. “Is there reason to fear for Her Majesty’s life?”
“It is too early to say. I will know better when she is again conscious.”
“Is it certain she will regain consciousness?” the chancellor persists.
“Enough!” Charles commands. “Such pessimism has no place at Her Majesty’s bedside. Out!” The gentlemen retreat, leaving only Castelan.
Charles’ moment of regal self-possession fades. He seems to shrink as he creeps along the side of the bed. By the time he kneels beside it, he looks more like a boy of eight than a man of eighteen.
“Mother…” The voice so stern a moment ago is a whisper, choked by tears. “You must not leave me. I cannot rule alone.”
“I could.”
Does François really mutter this beneath his breath?
Moving to Castelan’s side, I repeat de Morvilliers’ question, “Will she wake up?”
“I am of the opinion she will. Other than being as one asleep who cannot be roused, I detect no symptom of illness. It is my belief that once her body is fully rested, she will rejoin us.”
“I will be here when she opens her eyes,” I say.
The King looks up. “As will I.”
“No, Charles,” I say gently, “you must manage your kingdom and direct your commanders in the field. That is the duty of a king. Waiting and watching are my duties as a daughter.”
He nods. “As I know you will do your duty with care, I cannot stint in mine.” Rising, he approaches me with eyes burning. “Do not leave her. You are my eyes and ears in her sick chamber.”
François brings me my book and my embroidery. I send for Henriette and Charlotte. They are glad to come. After acquainting them with the Queen’s condition, I turn to the subject most on my mind.
“The crown of Spain will not be mine.” I can feel my eyes prick as I say it.
“That is a great shame.” Henriette shakes her head.
“I hope it is not more. I hope Her Majesty’s disappointment over the matter is not what felled her.”
“Do not be absurd. Her Majesty is made of stronger stuff. She has laid a husband and a son in the grave. Left with a boy king, she managed to keep him on the throne in a time of war. If the King of Spain has put her in this bed, it is not by his failure to marry you.”
I pray Henriette is right. But I do not feel relieved.
Nor, apparently, do I look it. For Charlotte says, “I know it is selfish of me, but I am glad you do not go to Spain. I would have the three of us together awhile longer.”
“I can tell you someone else who will be cheered by the Spanish king’s decision,” Henriette adds. “The Duc de Guise would rather have you on French soil, and he has made that quite clear.”
“To whom?” I did not see the Duc when we were in Saumur, as he was quartered at Chinon.
Henriette winks. “I will not say. But I trust my source. The Duc does not like the idea of your marrying.”
A sudden movement from the bed keeps me from replying. Mother has half raised herself. Her eyes are open but they do not seem to apprehend us.
Jumping to my feet, I say, “Madame! We thought you left us!”
“I did. I have been to Châteauneuf to see your brother.” She looks about wildly as if searching for something recognizable.
“You are at Metz, Madame. You have been for weeks.”
Rather than calming her, my pronouncement agitates her further. “Foolish girl, I have been with Henri.”
I lay a hand on her shoulder. She burns; I can feel as much through her chemise. “Henriette, find Castelan. Tell him the Queen is awake and feverish.”
Charlotte crosses herself.
Turning my attention back to Mother, I gently ease her onto her pillow. “Rest. When you next wake, Henri will be here.”
A lie but it serves its purpose. Murmuring my brother’s name, she closes her eyes. I wonder, has word been sent to Anjou? Surely it must have been.
Castelan seems to think it a good thing that Mother spoke, no matter how nonsensically. He bleeds her for the fever, which he assures me is neither high nor serious.
As the light fades Mother begins to thrash. Her eyes open, again bright but seemingly unseeing. Touching her, I am sure that her fever worsens. Shouting for a servant, I send again for the physician.
You said she would not die. I long to fling the words at Castelan when he arrives. He does not look sanguine as he did hours ago. Watching him bleed Her Majesty, I have the sudden urge to go out and see if I can find the body of the bird that struck my window. Perhaps, if I cannot, I can believe the creature was only stunned and, having awakened, flew away. But I will not leave Mother, and besides, what chance would I have of finding a black bird in the dark?
“If Your Highness wishes to retire,” Castelan says, “I will watch over Her Majesty.”
I cannot be persuaded to leave. I am roused from a fitful sleep in my chair by Mother’s voice.
“Alexander, my Alexander,” she croons. “I knew it would be so.” The words are perfectly clear but I do not understand them. Opening my eyes, I see a bleary-eyed Castelan standing at Mother’s bed. She is sitting up, looking into the darkness of the room.
“Your Majesty, you have a fever; you must rest,” the physician says.
“Yes, the battle is over. I can rest. But not before I see my Henri—”
I am not certain if she means my father or my brother.
“—see the Prince’s head.”
A great wave of fear rolls over me. Has something happened to Anjou?
Castelan moves to where he has arranged the items of his profession. Quickly he mixes a draught while Mother continues to stare at nothing, a smile on her face.
“This will calm her,” the physician says. Mother is perfectly calm, her expression nearly pacific. But I know what he means—the draught will make her sleep, and that will surely relieve his obvious discomfort. Will it lessen mine? I wish it were so easy. Even after Mother sips the liquid and closes her eyes, I feel frantic. I am sure Mother has seen something. Not in her room but in her mind’s eye. It could be merely a memory. Or it could be a premonition. She is known for them. Is my brother Henri safe? Who has lost a head?
* * *
“Henri! Oh, Henri!” I know it is unseemly, but I do not care: the instant my brother is off his horse, I throw my arms around him, heedless of the gentlemen who accompany him and of the grooms rushing forward. Standing on my tiptoes, I kiss his cheeks again and again. I have known since yesterday, when Monsieur de Losses arrived, that my brother was safe. But knowing
and seeing are two very different things.
Henri laughs, waving his companions on and picking me up from the ground. “What is this? You like me better when I win battles, eh?”
And Henri did win. Monsieur de Losses brought that news as well—how, at a place called Jarnac, Anjou and Marshal de Tavannes surprised the Huguenots; how the Huguenots were defeated; how Condé was killed. Mother, awakened from a sleep far less troubled than the night before, had no patience for the tale, merely declaring, “Did I not know of this victory yesterday?” But I listened to every word.
“I love you always!” I declare.
“I know, I know.” He embraces me again. “What were those lines Ronsard wrote for you?”
I finger the buttons on the front of his doublet. “‘My sweet affection, my garden-pink and rose, thou canst take all my flock away, and of myself dispose.’” The words, last delivered in performance at the army’s camp, seem entirely different spoken softly looking up into my brother’s face.
There is something odd about the moment, but it passes as Henri releases me and asks, “Where is Mother?”
“Sick. Did Charles not tell you?”
A flash of anger moves across Anjou’s face. “He did not.”
“Perhaps his message did not reach you. You were on the move.”
“Perhaps.” He does not look appeased. “Is she very ill?”
“She had a fever but it is gone. Yet she is very weak. She cannot hold a pen to write—she tried this morning.”
“She tried to write? Then her mind is clear.”
“Yes, and her opinions as strong as ever.”
“Take me to her.”
Charles is beside Mother as we enter. At the sight of Anjou, Her Majesty’s face is transfigured.
“My Alexander!” she cries, extending trembling hands.
They are the same words she said the night of her fever. This is more than coincidence! I believe that she did see the victory as she insisted to Losses last evening.
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